Angela set the table quietly, her movements precise as she placed Matteo's dinner in front of him. He sat at the head of the long dining table, still dressed in his tuxedo, looking like he had stepped straight out of a luxury magazine. His presence, commanding as always, filled the room. She didn't say much. Just served his food and walked away with a soft, "Enjoy your dinner."
Matteo didn't respond—just watched her with those sharp, unreadable eyes as she left the room.
Upstairs, Angela peeled off her day's armor, her emotions, her fear, her mask—and stepped into a soft nightgown, simple and modest. She wasn't in the mood for another stare-down or a silent meal where the tension screamed louder than words. She needed peace. She needed space. And she needed to breathe.
Without thinking twice, she headed for the visitor's room. The same one Matteo had warned her about the first night she arrived. She didn't care. Not tonight. She couldn't take another second of playing pretend in his presence.
But Matteo noticed the moment he stepped into his bedroom and found it empty. The sheets untouched. The air cold without her. Something sharp twisted in his gut. His blood simmered.
Without removing his shirt, only undoing his tie, he stormed out of the room, his footsteps like thunder down the hall. When he reached the visitor's room, he didn't knock. He didn't pause.
He barged in.
Angela, curled up under the sheets with a book in hand, let out a startled yelp and sat upright.
"Angela…" His voice was low, like a warning wrapped in velvet. "Angela, you don't seem to listen."
She sprang to her feet instantly, her pulse hammering. "Don't come any closer," she said, breath shaky. "I do not wish to share a room with you tonight. I'm busy."
The corner of his mouth curled—not into a smile, but something darker. Dangerous.
"You don't make rules here, principessa," he growled, the Italian term slicing through the air like a blade. "Not in my house. Not under my roof."
"I don't belong to you," she snapped, the tremor in her voice betraying her fear.
He took a step forward.
She took one back.
"I'm not a prisoner."
He laughed once, low and humorless. "No? Then why are you running from me like one?"
"I need space!" she said, voice rising. "You think you can just demand obedience, expect me to play your wife and sit beside you like I belong in this golden cage? You don't own me, Matteo!"
"No," he murmured, walking slowly toward her now. "But I do control what happens in this house. And that includes where my wife sleeps."
"I'm not some obedient toy you can drag around when you feel like it—"
"Enough." The word cracked through the room like thunder.
Angela flinched, but didn't back down. "You don't scare me."
"Good," he said coldly. "Fear fades. But obedience, that lasts."
Before she could turn away or take another breath, Matteo lunged forward.
"Matteo—no! Don't you dare—!"
She screamed as he scooped her into his arms effortlessly. She struggled, kicked, hit his chest, but his grip didn't waver. It only tightened.
"Put me down!" she shouted, fists pounding his shoulder. "This is insane!"
"You disobeyed me, cara mia," he said calmly, carrying her like she weighed nothing. "And now you face the consequence."
He marched into the master bedroom and tossed her onto the bed. She bounced slightly, hair splayed, nightgown riding up slightly from the force. Her breath caught in her throat, her body frozen with disbelief and defiance.
Matteo loomed at the edge of the bed, eyes dark and storming.
"I warned you never to enter that room," he said, voice low, dangerous. "And you defied me."
She glared at him from the bed. "You think this is how marriage works? Dragging me around like a possession? I'm not afraid of you, Matteo. I'm sick of your games!"
"Oh, princess, this isn't a game," he said, slowly leaning closer until his face was just inches from hers. "You married the devil. Don't act surprised when you feel the fire."
Her breath hitched.
Then, as if catching himself, he stepped back.
"I won't touch you tonight," he said, his voice suddenly calm again. "But make no mistake, this is your room. My room. You will sleep here, beside me."
"Why do you care where I sleep?" she whispered.
He turned his back to her, pulling off his watch with a sigh. "Because you're mine. And I don't share what's mine. Not with space. Not with distance. And especially not with another room."
Angela swallowed hard.
Matteo glanced at her over his shoulder. "And remember this—never disobey me again."
With that, he strode to the bathroom, unbuttoning his shirt as he walked.
She stared after him, heart racing, mind spinning.
He was Matteo De Luca. A man made of stone and danger. A man who spoke in threats and possession. But somewhere under all that steel was a fire she couldn't stop staring at—couldn't stop feeling.
As the bathroom door shut and the sound of running water filled the room, Angela sat frozen on the bed, hands clenched, breath shaky.
She wasn't sure who would win in the end—Matteo's control or her resistance.
But one thing was certain.
She wasn't leaving this room tonight.